Cursive Lines
by ValentineRose28
Summary: Sometimes I think of you and it's hard to breathe. Even now, almost two years later. I still miss you. It's like someone's cut a piece out of my chest and left it gaping. Nobody can see the wound. They can't smell the blood. You're still etched under my skin.
1. Chapter 1

The first thing I notice when I get home that night is not the despair threatening to rip my lungs out of my chest. It is not the bone-aching exhaustion. It is not the shock or the horror or the anger. All of those things come later, in waves, in tsunamis that threaten to drown me.

The first thing I notice, when I collapse into my chair across from your empty one, is where your blood stained the knee of my trousers, the cuff of my jumper, the skin under my fingernails.

I break into a million pieces that get lost in the spaces you left behind.

* * *

Your funeral is small. Plenty of people show up to the graveyard after the service, to pay their dues. You were not well liked. But you knew that. You knew and you didn't care. But people respected you, you know.

Well. I guess you don't.

I shake hand after hand. I don't know why they come to me. Mycroft is standing beside me, but everyone shakes my hand first. The rumors, I guess. Haunting you even beyond the-

No. I can't make the joke. Not now. Not after what you did. It's too soon.

* * *

It's been a week. And still I expect-

Honestly, I don't know what I expect.

You can't be gone.

You can't be dead.

* * *

I've been seeing my shrink again. I'm sure if you were here, you would laugh at me and tell me exactly why I shouldn't, because really, she's probably incompetent, right? Well you aren't here. You aren't.

You don't get an opinion anymore.

* * *

The limp is back.

* * *

I blame you.

* * *

It's been a month. Nothing's changed.

* * *

I keep telling myself that if you would just come back, if you would just stop being dead, I would never ask you for anything more. I would keep my feelings to myself, and I wouldn't mind keeping the secret. Anything would be better than this. I would be better. Just one more miracle. For me.

Please.

* * *

I went back to your grave again today. Sat with you for a while. Left you some flowers. I know you hate flowers, but it's the proper thing to do, I think. I know you hate the proper thing as well, but I couldn't think of anything else to bring. Sorry about that.

I think this will be the last time I come to see you. It's hard. It's too much for me so- so goodbye, for now.

* * *

Nothing matters. You're gone. I think I'll go away from Baker Street for a while, get away from the city.

You are everywhere. You are nowhere.

* * *

The seasons are beginning to change. It's warmer, for a start. I know you hated spring. It's hard to look like an arrogant sod when you have allergies that make your nose turn pink and your eyes water. Plus, you could never wear your damn coat, so your whole façade was ruined and that always got under your skin.

You hid behind that coat, didn't you? You were never as cool as you wanted everyone to think. But I saw.

You let me see.

Why did you let me see?

* * *

Why did you go?

* * *

I miss you.

* * *

I hate you.

* * *

I love you.

* * *

I don't know why it took me so bloody long to say it, even in my head. But I did. I do. Love you, I mean. I don't know why I never told you. I was afraid you would reject the idea. I was afraid you couldn't feel the same. But you were so much more human than you ever wanted anyone to think. Why were you so afraid of letting them see?

Why were you so afraid of feeling anything?

* * *

It's been a year.

It still hurts like the day it happened. I'm no closer to figuring out why.

I'm sorry.

* * *

Why couldn't you have let me in?

* * *

I made so many mistakes. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

* * *

Today I'll smoke a cigarette for every year you would be and hope it kills me. Happy birthday.

* * *

I thought I saw you today, in the reflections of a shop window. Dark hair, long coat, lean frame. My heart just about stopped. Could have been anybody. Could have been you.

But that's not possible.

You're dead.

* * *

Your prat of a brother came around this morning. Don't know how the prick found my new address, but you know how he can be. British government, and all.

He beat around the bush a bit, asking me about my week. Asked if I'd been around to any new places lately, seen any new faces. I told him to piss off and let me get back to my tea.

He didn't mention you. I am grateful for that. Don't know if I could have taken it, honestly.

* * *

I pulled out my gun and held it for a while last night. I haven't done it since before I met you. If I had known I would be this dependent on you, would I still have agreed to the flat share?

Yes. Every time, my answer would be yes.

* * *

When I close my eyes, I see your broken body lying on the pavement outside of Bart's. I dream of you, of the blood. I think about how your skin was still warm when I reached for the pulse I knew I wouldn't find.

Did it hurt?

* * *

Sometimes I think of you and it's hard to breathe. Even now, almost two years later.

I still miss you. It's like someone's cut a piece out of my chest and left it gaping. Nobody can see the wound. They can't smell the blood.

You're still etched under my skin.

* * *

I stood on the roof of Bart's this morning, the wind whipping my hair into my eyes and nearly knocking me off my feet. I stood in the exact place you stood. I looked down, thought about how you must have felt. Your goodbye echoed in my ears. The height made me dizzy, and the pain in my chest made me sick. I thought about spreading my arms wide and falling, flying, just like you. I wish I could have sprouted wings and taken off. I wish I could leave this place and get the hell away from you. The city is tainted with your memories.

* * *

There is something buzzing under my skin. Something is happening. I can feel it. If you were here, you could tell me.

* * *

I went back to Baker Street today for the first time since leaving. Mrs. Hudson was quite put out by my absence. Nearly took my head off with a biscuit, she did. I talked her around, though. She wanted to talk about you, but I can't even say your name. I can't even be in the same space as your name or I will explode into a million pieces.

* * *

Next week will make two years. You're not coming back.

* * *

How could it still hurt so much?

* * *

I've had much too much to drink tonight and all I can think is- one more miracle. One more. For me.

Please.

* * *

There is a knock at the door. I look up from the paper spread across my lap, the headlines of strange deaths of many of London's biggest and baddest spelled out in huge print across the front, and frown.

I fold the paper up and place it to the side, setting my cup of tea down on it. I heave myself to my feet, my tired bones creaking in protest. I shuffle to the door, the limp in my leg angering me more than it should. My skin freezes as I leave the rug and hit the cold tile of the hall.

I've no idea who could be at the door. I don't have friends. I don't get along with my neighbors. I've yelled at so many solicitors I'm sure they've got me on some sort of black list.

Another knock, sounding decidedly more annoyed than the first, makes my brow furrow.

"Just a moment," I growl.

I unlock the deadbolt and slide the chain out of its place. I swing the door open, frown still in place, prepared to tell the visitor to piss off.

My heart stops. My breathing shudders to a halt. The scowl slides right off my face and I stumble back a step. Then two. Then three. My hand scrabbles along the wall to my right, searching for purchase. My vision fades to grey. I hear you clear your throat as if from the end of a tunnel. You speak, and the sound is deep and rich and the most beautiful thing I've ever heard because I thought I would never hear it again.

"Hello, John."


	2. Chapter 2

It's actually you.

You're in my living room, on my couch, drinking tea out of my mug. Your hair is dark as ever, and your eyes still can't decide if they want to be grey or green or blue. You're staring at me. I'm gaping at you. I'm sure my face is the color of milk. Or a heart attack, I can't decide.

My eyes scan your cheekbones, your lips, your neck, shoulders, wrists, knees, ankles. Everything is intact. It's been two years, to the day, and yet I'm still expecting to see blood or cuts or scars or _something_ to prove I haven't gone stark raving mad.

You're talking. I can see your lips moving, but I can't hear any words coming out. The top of my head feels hot and the rest of me feels as if I've been doused with cold water. My lips feel a bit numb.

I keep thinking about the sound of you hitting the pavement, the cold stare of your unseeing eyes, the heat of your skin under my fingers as I searched desperately for a pulse. I keep thinking about the rain in my eyes at your funeral. The cold metal of the gun as I twisted it round and round in my hands. The feeling of the wind as it ripped through my clothes whilst I stood on the roof of Bart's hospital, staring down at the pavement that broke your body, fractured your skull, took you away from me in a wash of red and fear.

You were dead.

When I faint, you jump up and catch me before I can hit the ground. The sound of you calling my name rattles around in my skull longer than should be possible.

* * *

I wake some time later. The sun has shifted, leaving me in the dark. I glance at the clock on my bedside table. It reads 8:20 in dull green letters. I sit up, swing my feet over the edge of my bed, and heave a sigh, rubbing a hand over my face.

I dreamed of you again. That you were back. It's worse than when I dream of you dying.

There is a sound from the kitchen: plates rattling, or something of the sort. The hair on the back of my neck rises, and I slowly stand and emerge from my bedroom, defenses on high.

I see a mop of dark hair and it hits me- it wasn't a dream. You're really here.

You turn around, a plate in your hand, and the breath leaves my lungs. You're beautiful.

I want to kill you. I want to kiss you.

I want to fall to my knees and beg you to never leave me again.

* * *

You ordered Thai for us. I sit with a plate in my lap at one end of the couch and you sit at the other. The telly is on, but we're not watching it. My hands are trembling. I can't eat, but I have to keep my hands busy or they'll do something stupid like try to touch you to make sure you're warm and solid and _here_. So I push noodles around and around and try not to scream.

I turn to look at you and find that you're quietly studying me. You haven't touched your food either. I lean forward and set my plate on the coffee table so that I don't give in to the urge to smash it over your head.

When I'm done being in shock, I'm almost certain I will be furious.

But for now, I can just be relieved.

* * *

"John."

Your voice sends shivers down my spine.

"Are you going to tell me why?" I'm speaking far too loudly, but I can't stop myself.

You bite your bottom lip, and my chest shudders.

"I had my reasons. Most of them involved you."

I stand and grab both of our plates. I can't let me hear this. I can't let me listen to you, or I'll break. I move into the kitchen and dump the dishes into the sink, flipping on the tap and filling the basin with steaming water. I add soap and begin to scrub, my motions harsh and sharp.

I can hear you breathing behind me, and it is possibly the most beautiful and infuriating sound in the world.

"I'm sorry."

My heart is hammering against its bone cage so hard I'm afraid it will break it and sends shards exploding outwards.

"John, say something, for God's sake."

I turn to face you so quickly that I almost get whiplash. You are standing in the doorway of the kitchen, looking awkward and uncomfortable. You fold your arms across your chest and look away from my furious gaze, eyes tilting down towards the floor.

"I watched you _die._ I mourned you. I prayed every damn day for a miracle and, quite frankly, I want a refund."

You flinch, contorting your strange but brilliant features, and I feel a bit bad.

But only a bit.

"I haven't been able to even think your name since it happened. I haven't said your _name_ in two years."

"I'm sorry-"

"I don't want to hear that you're sorry," I yell, my voice echoing in the silence it leaves behind. "I want to know _why._ I want to know _how_ you could just leave me like that and not even give a fuck."

You squeeze your eyes shut and press your lips together, angling your head towards the floor. "I can't explain yet, John. I'm not even supposed to be here. I'm trying to protect you-"

"Then why did you come?" My voice is like venom. I can see its bite. I can see the poison as it leaks into your body, slumping your shoulders.

All I've wanted for two years is for you to not be dead. Now you're here and all I want is to die myself.

* * *

I go back to bed and make you sleep on the couch. I should throw you out. But nobody knows yet, except me. And, I'm sure, Mycroft. But even though I hate you, I wouldn't subject you to a night with him.

I toss for hours until, finally, when the clock strikes midnight, I can't stand it anymore. You are just on the other side of the wall, breathing and _alive._

I lost two years. Two whole years without your annoying comments and odd sleeping patterns and frankly frustrating eating habits. I lost two years of stolen laughs at crime scenes and biting comments about Anderson's capability and shared looks over dinner or tea. I don't hate you. I wish that I could. It would make things a lot easier. But maybe I don't want easy, not anymore.

I tiptoe into the sitting room and stand in front of the couch, next to the coffee table. You're nothing but a shadow huddled under a blanket. Your eyes are closed, your eyelashes fanned over your cheekbones. The pale blue light from the telly dances over your skin, turning it translucent.

"I know you're not asleep," I say. My voice seems too loud in the quiet of the night. But it breaks the spell, and your eyes open.

You stare at me and I stare at you and neither of us dare to move or breathe or think too loudly.

"I missed you," I say. My voice breaks, and embarrassment floods my face with pink.

Your mouth opens but you don't say anything. I take a small step forward.

"You've no idea what you put me through."

"I-I got your flowers. All of them." He meets my eyes, skirts his gaze away, and then turns back in a more determined way. I inhale quickly, almost choking. He shakes his head, as if to clear it. "I don't have the words, John, to express my sorrow. All I can offer is- is I'm _sorry_. I will explain, one day. When it's safe."

We breathe in unison. My whole body feels like it's shaking with the need to touch him.

"You know, don't you?" I ask. You sit up slowly, craning your neck to look up at me. Your legs unfurl and your feet come to land on the floor. I'm afraid to look away from you. I'm afraid you'll dissipate in the thin night air.

"Know what, exactly?"

I laugh, but the sound is brittle in my throat. "Don't play dumb."

"John, I assure you, I never play dumb. I've no clue as to what you're trying to insinuate."

"Deduce me, then. Go on. You're so clever- figure it out."

I keep my face open, my body loose, and I stare at you. I let my feelings show through my eyes, shine through my pores. Your eyes drills holes in my skin, and I feel more naked and exposed under your gaze than I ever have before. You scan my face, dragging your eyes over my every feature. My lips tingle where they linger.

I love you. Can't you see?

I've always loved you.

You sit back abruptly, pupils blown wide. I can barely make your expression out in the dim light, but I recognize the taste in the air. Shock. Denial.

Confusion.

"That- that can't be."

I step into the space between your knees. Your hands clench the couch and you recline slightly, your face tilted up.

"It's true," I whisper. "Every bit."

I lean down, my hand resting on the back of the couch. We breathe the same air. I lower myself gently to straddle your lap. My hands flutter for a moment before cupping your face. Your skin is warm and true and real beneath my fingertips, and heat flares in my chest.

"John-"

"Stop talking," I murmur, and then I am upon you.

Our lips meet with a slight click of teeth, unpleasantly painful. Your fingers scrabble at my sleep shirt, twisting in the material just above my hips. I re-adjust, angling my head, and press myself into the spaces that were made for me. We fit together like two halves of a whole. I run my hands through your ridiculous curls and hold on for dear life.

Your lips are warm and wet and they feel like home. I am riding a tidal wave of sadness and relief and love, and any second I will crash down and you will push me away. The moment will end. Or the dream will, and I'll wake up. I will be forced to return to a world that you aren't in, and I am almost certain that it will kill me.

But you don't and I don't.

You press impossibly closer, filling up the holes that you left behind. Images of blood and cracked pavement flicker behind my eyelids, and I lick at the seam of your lips to get the taste of fear out of my mouth and replace it with you. You open up and I want to climb inside, where it's safe and warm. I pour myself into the kiss and fight at the memories.

You pull away with a gasp and stare up at me in awe, eyes shining. Our chests heave with ragged breaths. Your eyes are cursive lines, exquisitely beautiful and curiously unreadable.

"John?" you ask, voice desperate and pleading and confused.

In response, I pull you back under.

* * *

We end up in my bed, shedding layers and pressing close for warmth. I trace your bones with my fingertips. Your ribs shine through your pale skin and your hipbones are sharp curves under my palms. I kiss your collarbones with my open mouth, and you gasp. I kiss you for every time I missed you. I kiss you for every time I reached out and you weren't there. I kiss you for every moment I hated you, and I kiss you for every moment I loved you.

I kiss you for every lost moment we will never get back. You attack me with the same desperate abandon.

I wrap myself in your scent, in your skin. I memorize the sound of your moans forming my name. I revel in the way your teeth feel scraping over my shoulder. I bury myself in your heat as you grip me tight around the waist with your legs, long and elegant. I take a snapshot of you in my mind, with your back arched and your head thrown back and pale neck exposed, and tuck it away for safekeeping. I redefine myself by your beauty. I get lost in the fortress we make out of limbs and sheets, smothered in your presence.

I force my tongue to form your name. I shove it past my teeth for the first time in two years. "Sherlock, _Sherlock_," I cry out, falling apart at the seams.

You act as my blanket, draping yourself over and around me. I shiver and cuddle into your heat.

"You understand that- that I feel the same," you say. Your voice is soft and small. I press a kiss to your forehead under your damp hair. You don't have to say the words, just as I didn't have to say them to you. I know.

"If you ever leave me again," I begin. My heart beats hard enough that I'm sure you can feel it. "I will never forgive you."

"Does that mean that you are, in fact, forgiving me?" You are afraid. There is doubt in your tone, as if you believe I could go on living without you. I could never. I would die first.

"Of course." I swallow past the lump that has formed in my throat and pull you closer, molding you to my side. "Of course."


End file.
